“Port! Port!” cried Betty, suddenly, seeing the danger.
“Which is port—right or left? I’ve forgotten!” wailed Amy, helplessly.
“To the left! To the left!” answered Betty, springing forward. She was not in time to prevent Amy from turning the wheel to the left, which had the effect of swinging the boat to the right, and almost directly toward the canoeist, who shouted in alarm.
But by this time Betty had reached the wheel, and twirled it rapidly. She was only just in time, and the Gem fairly grazed the canoe, the wash from the propeller rocking it dangerously.
“We beg your pardon!” called Betty to the young man in the frail craft.
“That’s all right,” he said, pleasantly. “It was my own fault.”
“Thank you,” spoke Amy, gratefully. “Here, Bet, I don’t want to steer any more.”
“No, keep the wheel. You may as well learn, and I’ll stand by you. No telling when you may have to steer all alone.”
They stopped for lunch in a pretty little grove, and sat and talked for an hour afterward. Mollie hunted up a telephone and got into communication with her house. She came back looking rather sober.
“The specialist says Dodo will have to undergo an operation,” she reported. Grace gasped, and the others looked worried.